The Kowboi Klub
by Genii
Summary: Jack leaves his hometown in Toad Suck, AL, pop. 521, to seek his fortune as a cowboy. Instead, he finds the Kowboi Klub, a gay cabaret where he can wear leather pants and still make twice as much as the Lone Ranger. By Saturday and Dakki, of course.
1. Prologue

Prologue.

This is a story about all the most important things in life: sex, beauty, art, romance, sequins, and, above all things love.

It is a story of innocence and betrayal, of revenge and forgiveness.

It is a story set in the darkest corner of the earth, behind an unmarked door, three steps below ground, off a narrow alleyway in city where the streets have no names. Behind this unassuming facade was housed one of the most notorious houses of sin, seduction, and glamour in that particular postal code: The Kowboi Klub. We will be there soon enough. But before we can begin this tale--a tale that tells us of one boy's fall from grace, and the redemption that came to him at such a terrible cost--we must first go far away to the little town of Toad Suck, Alabama, where that boy was about to have his heart broken by the only girl that he had ever loved.

The boy's name was Jack Kelly, and he was seventeen years old. He lived in a white house with black shutters and a meticulously kept garden with red and yellow tulips, and his mother seemed to spend more time tending to her beloved perennials than to her son. "Kevin!" she would say when he came home from school.

"My name's Jack, Mom," Jack would say.

His mother would look up at him in mild surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry, sweetie," she would say after a moment. "I was talking to the flower Kevin." And she would turn back to the garden and continue to coo over the rim of her red plastic watering can, taking no more notice of her son.

Jack Kelly wasn't thinking about that, though. He was in love with a girl named Darlene, and she had left him for a brown-eyed boy on the basketball team. Eventually she had gotten around to telling him, and he came home from school that day with his head hanging and his hair defying the gel he had applied, falling into his eyes. "Hey Mom," he had said in misery.

"Have you seen the new fertilizer I bought the other day?" his mother had asked absently.

That afternoon he had sat in the tulips in front of his house for hours, carefully plucking the petals off each beautiful, perfectly formed blossom. It was that day that Jack Kelly decided to run away.

Years later, the boy who loved him would muse that Jack himself was much like the marigolds and ranunculus his mother had loved so dearly: a bloom whose fragile beauty was destroyed by the harshness of the world. Of course, at that moment, he would have said almost anything to get into Jack's pants, which were leather, and so tight that they almost defied the laws of physics. On that fateful day in September, Jack looked at his life with poetry so seldom found in places like Toad Suck. He and Darlene had been like Romeo and Juliet, except that, instead of stabbing herself in the heart in grief over his death, she had broken off their relationship without even telling him, letting him find out for himself when he found her in the Home Economics room one afternoon, wearing nothing but a ruffled apron and making out with Larry-Pat, captain of the Toad Suck Grizzly Eels.

She had tried to comfort him when she found him, four hours later in the biology lab, sobbing and taking swigs from a bottle of hydrochloric acid. "Now, Jack," she said. "You know I loved our time together, and this ain't nothin' personal. A girl's just gotta trade up. And besides—we've been together for four months already. You knew it had to end soon."

Jack hiccupped miserably and turned to look at the Darlene. Even though she had betrayed him, he still loved her. "But didn't we have fun? Remember the time we did it in the back of Mike Tartakoff's Impala? Didn't that mean anything to you?"

"Yes, Jack, of course it did. And the time in the back of the Chick-Fil-A and in the gym showers and in the canned food aisle at the grocery store…but, well…"

"But what?"

"Larry-Pat's on the basketball team, Jack! And, well, he's just more popular than you are! I do care for you, Jack. I do. You're nice, you still have almost all of your teeth, and you're tremendous in bed…" at this, she sighed wistfully and trailed her hand, nails buffed and varnished in Sally Hansen Apricot Dream, down Jack's stomach, slipping it gracefully under the waistband of his blue jeans one last time in a move that had never failed to make him lose his cool during Mr. Ermentraut's Spanish class. "...but," she sighed, "everything has a season. Everything has its time."

Jack was at a loss for words for a moment. He couldn't believe it. His girlfriend was breaking up with him using the lyrics from _Pippin_. It was literally his worst nightmare, and it was coming true.

"Darlene, please," he begged. "You're the love of my life."

She smiled sadly, and put her hand back on his shoulder. "You don't really mean that. I'm sure you'll be fine, Jack. But I really have to go. Larry-Pat's still in the Home Ec room, and he'll need his pants back presently. Good-bye, Jack," she said. "Take care of yourself and your…gift." And without another word, she turned and walked out of his life forever.

Jack had always been an extremely romantic person, despite his reluctance to admit it in front of his sunburned, overly-masculine friends. He was the type of person who would seriously consider dying for love; and he did consider it, momentarily, while shredding the poor perennials in his mother's garden. In the end, however, he decided that he was above that.

"I'm above that," he told the last, rather limp tulip as he held its stem tightly in his fist. "I ain't gonna let one girl get the better of me! I can do better than that! I've got nice hair!"

The flower drooped unenthusiastically, but Jack didn't care. He stood up with determination and confidence, almost tripped over his mother's plastic watering can, righted himself, and walked smartly into the house. He grabbed his backpack from beside the door and entered the kitchen, where he chose the few necessary provisions he was sure he would need: a water bottle, a package of Fig Newtons, his _The Phantom of the Opera _DVD, and as much hair gel as he could carry.

And, without so much as a kiss goodbye to his mother, Jack Kelly left his beautiful white house with black shutters, deliberately marching through the ruined bed of tulips.

Where he was going he wasn't quite sure, but it hadn't occurred to him that this would be a problem. He made his way confidently down the street, turned the corner, and made his way confidently down another street, positively beaming. He was leaving, he was leaving Toad Suck and its dry heat and its clean lawns, he was leaving Darlene and his mother and the world he had known: the world of tulips and people with double names, like Mary-Lou and Bobby-Sue and Larry-Pat. He was leaving, just like that Beatles song!

Half an hour later, Jack was sitting down on the corner of yet another perfectly trimmed lawn and running both hands through his hair. "This," he said to no one in particular, "is going to suck."

--

DALTON: Bum bum bum bum BAH dum bum BAH dum!

DAKKI AND SATURDAY: Bum bum bum bum BAH dum bum BAH dum!

DAKKI AND SATURDAY AND DALTON: BUM bum bum BUM bum bah DUM-bah-DUM, bum BUM bum bah DUM-bah-DUM, bum BAH bum BAH-DUM, bum BAH-DUM!

DAKKI: What you just heardis the Imperial March, the very special theme song of Darth Vader, Dalton's first-ever crush.

DALTON: But we are not asking you to join the dark side.

SATURDAY: We are asking you to join…THE SLASH SIDE!

((thunder and lightning))

DAKKI: It has come to our attention that we, the Genii, have to post something completely insane every August. Last year, it was the pathos-driven, musical-theater-fueled romp through rural Alaska that we like to call TOXIC. This year, it is a slashy, borderline pornographic and very sparkly murder-mystery that we like to call…

SATURDAY: THE KOWBOI CLUB!

DALTON: Be afraid. Be very afraid.

SATURDAY: We're like bad pennies; we always turn up.

DALTON: We're gonna need a bigger boat.

DAKKI: Badges? We don't need no steenking badges!

DALTON: I HAVE RUN OUT OF MOVIE CLICHES!

DARTH VADER: ((breathes)) So please review.


	2. Chapter One

**The Kowboi Klub**

**Chapter One—Hot Dogs in Houston**

**Author's Note:**

SATURDAY: I don't think I've ever updated so quickly in my entire life.

DAKKI: Further evidence that we are totally meant for each other.

SATURDAY: ...

DAKKI: ...

SATURDAY: ...

DAKKI: ...Okay,_ where_ is Dalton and why hasn't he made a sarcastic comment about our lesbian attraction to each other yet!

SATURDAY: I think Dalton is MIA.

DAKKI: Missing In Action?

SATURDAY: No. Man In A... DRESS!

DALTON: ((appears, rolling eyes)) That was _very_ clever.

DAKKI: But true, apparently.

DALTON: I AM NOT GAY.

SATURDAY: And now, on with the fic!

**Disclaimer:** We own nothing except Jack's leather pants, which belong to Dakki, and Spot's blouse, which belongs to Saturday.

-

**Raised on hunches and junk-food lunches and punch-drunk ballroom steps****  
****You get to believin' you're even-steven with the kids at fast track prep****  
****So you dump your bucks on a velvet tux and you run to join the dance****  
****But your holy shows and the Romans know you're just a child of circumstance, 'cause**

**This is an ordinary town and the prophet has no face****  
****This is an ordinary town and the seasons run in place****  
****And every highway leads you prodigal and true****  
****To the ordinary angels watchin' over you**

**-Tracey Grammer**

-

Looking back, Jack came to Houston like a lamb to the slaughter. The biggest city in Texas had been hit that spring with a heat wave; temperatures were rising every day to the low hundreds, and Jack was clad entirely in leather. He had hitched a ride out of Toad Suck with a trucker who was delivering a load of Virgin Mary ice sculptures to a JesusCon in Bakersfield, and he spent long hours in the refrigerated hold, his lips turning blue as the taffeta-and-rhinestone dress Darlene had worn when she went to the junior prom with him last year. Spread out in front of him was a map of the country, including some parts of Canada, and for a long time he just stared at it, wondering what he wanted to do with his life, and where he would find a new home. He thought of all the things he had wanted to be when he was growing up: football player, fireman, star of the Broadway stage--and finally, just outside of Hot Coffee, Mississippi, it came to him. Cowboy.

He would be a cowboy!

All his life he had dreamed of riding the range, playing the banjo, and eating beans. And now, unfettered by the expectations of his so-called friends and family, he could! He could be anything he wanted to be. He was Jack Kelly. He had good hair.

Texas was the best place to be a cowboy, and Houston was the biggest city in Texas, so it only made sense that he should start there. The trucker dropped him off in the center of town, wished him well, and continued on his way. And Jack, ever conscious of the fact that clothes make the man, stopped by a store called Leather Man, run by two really friendly guys named Dan and Stan who did such a good job measuring his inseam, and with his savings from his summer job as a hog caller, he bought himself a brand-new leather wardrobe: vest, hat, chaps, boots, and a pair of black pants that fully displayed his gift. Stan and Dan said they fit him so well that they would give them to him for free as long as he came back whenever he needed another pair. People were so nice in the city.

And so Jack set out into the streets in his costume-- no, his uniform, he mentally corrected himself. If he was going to be a successful cowboy, he was going to have to get used to the idea that this was his work uniform, just as necessary as a suit to a businessman in New York City.

Jack had never been to New York City. Jack had never been out of Toad Suck. He decided that he was doing a very good job blending in with the other Houstonians.

He made his way cheerily down the street, walking with his pelvis slightly out so as to show off his flattering new pants. He couldn't deny that he was slightly surprised at the lack of corrals and wide open fields where freshly broken ponies with hides dappled white and gray roamed and men with skin burned a smooth, dark brown from the sun played harmonicas beneath great oak and elm trees that stretched long, slender limbs into the clear blue sky spotted with feathery clouds. As a matter of fact, there didn't seem to be a tree in sight, let alone a pony or another cowboy. He paused in the shade of a thirty-story skyscraper and scratched the back of his neck, slightly perplexed. This wasn't exactly what he had expected.

A boy with bright blue eyes and dark, curly hair was eyeing him with what appeared to be a mixture of amusement and apprehension from behind a nearby hot dog stand. He seemed to think for a moment, and then he put down his tongs and made his way over to the leather-clad teenager. "Um... Do you need any help?" he asked, tugging absently at his apron.

Jack turned to the newcomer and his face lit up in a smile. _"Yes,"_ he said in tones of gratitude. "Could you tell me where the closest corral is?"

The boy blinked. "Um..."

"It's all right if you don't know," said Jack, smiling warmly. "How's this: do you know where someone is who could tell me? Clint Eastwood, perhaps?"

"Are you..." The boy's eyes traveled down Jack's body, lingering for a moment on his gratuitously tight black leather pants, and his eyebrows lifted slightly. He seemed to be trying to find the right word. "Are you, um..."

"A cowboy?" Jack prompted, swishing his hair. "Yes!"

The boy stared at him for a moment, clearly stunned, and then his face broke into a smile and he held out his hand. "I'm David," he said.

"Jack Kelly," said Jack, and he spit into his palm and reached out to shake David's hand.

"What the--" David pulled back quickly. "What are you doing? That's disgusting!"

Jack looked down at his hand. "Oh," he said. "Everybody does it back in Toad Suck."

"Back in-- _where?"_

"Never mind," said Jack quickly, wiping his hand on his pants.

But David was looking more and more amused every minute, and he smiled again and said, "Do you want a hot dog, Jack Kelly?"

Jack was dismayed. "I'm a vegetarian," he said gloomily. "I guess that's not very cowboy-like, is it?"

"Guess not," said David idly. He took up his tongs again and placed two hot dogs into buns for a young couple wearing cutoffs and flip-flops, and accepted their money. He didn't seem to notice the constipated look on Jack's face and the way he was fiddling with the fringes on his leather vest, until Jack stomped over to his hot dog stand and held out his hand.

David looked at his hand blankly for a moment, and then shook it.

"No, give me a hot dog!" said Jack with the air of addressing someone very small.

"But I thought you were a vegetarian!" David reminded him in confusion.

Jack puffed his chest up proudly and flipped his hair. "I'll have a hot dog," he said, "for Houston. I am a true Texan cowboy!"

And so David, who had absolutely no idea what was in store for him, hesitantly picked up his tongs and set a hot dog into a bun, adding some ketchup, mustard, and a little onion for good measure. And he handed it to Jack.

Five minutes later, Jack had thrown up the entire hot dog, as well as what looked like some Fig Newtons and what appeared to be grass. David started to apologize hurriedly in horror, but Jack held up a hand; "I'm fine, I've just never eaten meat before. But true cowboys can stomach anything," he said dramatically.

David didn't quite see how this added up, but he couldn't keep himself from smiling anyway. He put down his tongs and began to take off his apron, and he said to Jack, who was looking rather green, "C'mon-- I think there's someone you need to meet."

-

Jack thought his new friend might take him to an Indian witch doctor, or maybe Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, to get his upset tummy looked at (no: not his tummy, his gut, he reminded himself sternly—cowboys never said "tummy"), so he was surprised when David led him into a new-looking free clinic on the outskirts of town, and introduced him to the youngest doctor he had ever seen.

"This," David said proudly, "is my friend, Dr. Sean Conlon. Sean, this is Jack. He's a cowboy."

"Spot, actually," said Dr. Conlon, reaching out to shake Jack's hand. "I just use my given name for my day job."

Jack stared at him, a puzzled expression on his handsome face, for almost a full minute. "But…you can't be a doctor!"

Spot pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and looked at Jack with a pair of steely gray eyes. "Oh?" he said. "Why not?"

"You're... fourteen!"

"Nineteen, actually," he said, looking more amused than offended. "I skipped a few years in high school."

"And middle school," David added.

"And college. So," said Dr. Spot, "what can I do for you, Cowboy Jack?"

"My tummy hurts," Jack said plaintively.

"I gave him a hot dog," said David.

"And not even romance him a little first?" Spot asked, at which point David blushed crimson. "Take him out to dinner, maybe? Cheeseburgers and beer? The amusing house wine?"

"But it's only two o' clock," Jack said, confused.

Spot sighed slightly and clicked his tongue. "David, David, David..." he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You sure do have excellent taste."

"Spo-ot," David whined, still bright red, "stop saying--"

But Spot said, "Hush" sternly and made to take off his lab coat. Jack wasn't surprised; he had been wondering how Spot had been able to stand the blistering heat in such impractical attire. Never once had it occurred to Jack that perhaps outfitting oneself completely in leather was not entirely appropriate for 110-degree weather.

He turned to look at David, whose blush seemed to have faded a little. "Sorry," he said awkwardly. "It's just... Well, I'd never eaten meat before. My mom's a real animal lover, and--" but he stopped, because talking about his mother hurt. Tears welled up in his eyes.

"It's going to be okay," said David, and he put a comforting hand on Jack's shoulder. "We're going to get you some help."

Jack gave a watery smile, reassured, and turned back to Spot-- and froze.

"All right, Cowboy Jack, if you could please seat yourself on the bed here," said Spot professionally, rolling up the sleeves of his black silken blouse. It was really quite beautiful, with an open neckline edged with delicate black lace that so complimented his ivory skin, and silver-black sequins that tinkled slightly and caught the light in a way that mesmerized Jack. He stared at Spot's chest, at a loss for words, unable to tear his eyes from the shining sequins.

David, who looked as though he had dealt with this before, sighed and rubbed his head impatiently.

Spot smiled devilishly. "The bed, please, Cowboy Jack," he said.

Jack came to his senses. "The bed?"

"Yes."

"But--" It had just occurred to Jack that Spot was probably about to seduce him. Even if Spot's gleaming leather pants did fit disturbingly well, the idea of someone other than Darlene sticking their hands down Jack's pants alarmed him so much that he turned to look imploringly at David, unable to act.

"He's just checking you out," said David in an attempt to sound encouraging, but then he realized what he had just said and added hastily, "In a strictly professional kind of way."

"I'm sorry if my attire distresses you," said Spot, gently stroking his own side. "I was growing hot in my lab coat."

And with that he pushed Jack down violently onto the cot and seated himself on top of him, so that he was straddling Jack's stomach. "Hmm," he said, squinting through his glasses, and then he took them off entirely and looked even closer at Jack's torso.

Jack, who had never been sat upon by a boy in black lace before, closed his eyes tight and started murmuring "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" under his breath so as to calm his nerves.

"Well," said Spot finally, standing up. "I think there's only one cure, David. It may be very painful-- traumatic, even-- but it's the only thing I can think of to prescribe at the moment."

Jack opened his eyes. "What?" he asked shakily.

Spot and David looked at each other for a moment, and then turned back to Jack and said, "The Kowboi Klub."

-

**Author's Note:**

DALTON: You. Have. Lost. Your. Minds.

SATURDAY: Said the prep school student in drag.

DALTON: I AM GOING UPSTAIRS TO CHANGE.

DAKKI: While Dalton is occupied with finding at least vaguely heterosexual attire, please leave a review!

-

**Shout Outs!**

**Braids**

DALTON: Darling, if you want to sing "Corner in the Sky" with me, you can do it anytime. It's the story of my _life_, sweetheart.

DAKKI: ((stares))

DALTON: …_what?_

DAKKI: Nothing. I'm just trying to figure out how you became, like 700 more gay in the last thirty seconds.

SATURDAY: Braids can do that to a person.

DAKKI: Ah, yes.

**Erin Go Bragh**

DALTON: Help!

KNOX & SATURDAY & DAKKI: I need somebody!

DALTON: HELP!

KNOX & SATURDAY & DAKKI: Not just anybody!

DALTON: _HELP!_

KNOX & SATURDAY & DAKKI: I REALLY NEED SOMEONE!

DALTON: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WILL SOMEONE HELP ME GET THIS JAR OPEN?

**Sprints**

SATURDAY: But of course Toad Suck is a real place! If we're going to torture Jack, after all, we make sure to do it _accurately._

DAKKI: Although Toad Suck is really in Arkansas, not Alabama.

DALTON: But that is purely because Dakki is an idiot who can't be bothered to look things up until AFTER the prologue has been posted.

DAKKI: But then again, Dalton still sleeps with a Harvey Birdman action figure.

DALTON: …YOU PROMISED YOU WOULD NEVER TELL!

-

We've said it once and we'll say it again…REVIEW! Or we'll blow up Alderaan.

Te adoro,

Saturday, Dakki, Dalton and Knox


	3. Chapter Two

**The Kowboi Klub  
****Chapter Two--It's All Wrong, but It's All Right**

-

**Author's Note:**

SATURDAY: We feel that it's best to tell you now—unless you want the way you look at Ben Affleck to be changed forever, you should probably skip this chapter.

DALTON: You've all gone MAD! MAD, I say!

DAKKI: Because for once, Charlie's right. We are mad, as the next six thousand words so amply demonstrate. You've been warned.

SATURDAY: And now, on with the fic!

**Disclaimer:** We own nothing, except for Skittery's ballet skippers, which belong to Saturday, and Mush's elbow ermine jacket, which belongs to Dakki.

-

**The world is a stage; love's an act we perform****  
****There's always some new act somewhere up the road****  
****And I'll always be starring in somebody's show**

**-Dolly Parton**

-

Jack spent the night on his new friends' couch, under a burnt-orange afghan that smelled uncannily like cat food. For two young men who lived in a big city, sold hot dogs, and wore black lace, Spot and David lived remarkably like two old women.

In the morning, David cooked them scrambled eggs with chives and cream cheese, and they all sat around the table, laughing and talking and eating eggs, looking out the window at a patch of blue Houston Sky. It was almost, Jack thought excitedly, like being a cowboy--except cowboys would probably drink whiskey with their breakfasts, or at least chocolate milk, instead of the organic carrot juice David served them.

But the greatest good omen of all came later that morning, when they were driving over to the Kowboi Klub in Spot's mint-green 1956 Cadillac convertible. Spot and David were up front, with Spot somehow managing to drive, do his makeup, drink a Long Island iced tea, and watch "Passions" on a black and white television set he had plugged into the cigarette lighter. Jack was in the back, catching the wind between his teeth and feeling the fresh air cool against his face, and feeling so good all over that he could almost forget about the city's tragic lack of ponies. And then suddenly, his favorite song in all the world came on the radio, and he knew that this must be a sign.

Back in Toad Suck, Jack's love for Dolly Parton had always been one of his most shameful secrets--not even Darlene had known about it, and she had been the love of his life. His parents had met at a Dolly Parton concert in Nashville, Tennessee; they had exchanged heated glances during "Jolene," brushed hands during "Islands in the Stream," kissed during "It's All Wrong, but It's all Right," and left in the middle of her encore of "You're the Only One" to make sweet, passionate love in Jack's father's black TransAm.

Jack's mother never saw him again. She never even knew his name. Later on, the only things she could tell Jack about his long-lost father were that he was devastatingly handsome, with the same hazel eyes, dusty hair, and oversized tongue as Jack, that he had said he was on his way to Hollywood to become the biggest star in the world, and (just as Darlene would later say to Jack) that he had an _enormous_...gift.

So Jack grew up listening to the Dolly Parton records his mother always played, thinking longingly, whenever he heard them, of the father he had never known. But there was one song in particular he had always loved, a song he listened to whenever he was sad, that spoke to him in a way he could never quite explain. It was about a girl from Tennessee who no one ever thought would make it, and now she was a star, and sitting in the back of a limousine being driven down the Las Vegas strip, eating chicken, and wishing the local boys who had taunted her back home could see what her life was like now.

Jack had always been sure Dolly would be able to understand his problems. He bet the town she came from was just exactly like Toad Suck.

And so, when that very song came on the radio in Spot's convertible, Jack knew it meant something. It meant he had made it at last--just like Dolly.

"WHOO HOO!" he shouted, announcing his success to the city of Houston, Texas. "Goodbye Toad Suck! Chicken in a limo! I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD!"

"Davey," said Dr. Spot, "you sure know how to pick 'em."

David shot him a withering look. "Fix your mascara," he said.

The car ride took about half an hour, and Jack spent the majority of that time blabbing happily about Dolly Parton and how he was gonna be a real live cowboy, just like his Pop. "'Cause that's what he is," he told Spot, who was flipping through the channels of the radio and clearly not listening at all. "Mom said he went to Hollywood to be a big star, but I've always known he's a cowboy in... Santa Fe!"

"Jack," said David, looking at him, "did you just think of that now?"

Jack casually retied his bootlace and said, "Uh, well... yeah."

Spot smirked and turned the rearview mirror so he could reapply his lip gloss.

Eventually the car slowed to a stop at a dark alleyway out of the way, and Spot parked and they all got out. The alley was damp from recent rain, and as they made their way through, several rats scampered wetly around their ankles, squeaking loudly. Jack had to keep himself from squealing and throwing himself into David's arms-- real cowboys never squealed, and they certainly tried to refrain from leaping into the arms of their companions.

Instead, Jack settled on clearing his throat awkwardly and tugging on his vest. "So this, ah, this must be quite a pub," he said.

Spot and David glanced at each other. "I guess you could say that," said David.

"Is it, like, a place for bad guys-- criminals to hide?" Jack asked curiously.

"Um..." David looked at Spot again, who was searching around in the pockets of his flowing, lavender robe that hung gracefully down to his knees and apparently trying to hide a smile. David blinked. "No, not really, Jack," he said finally. "Why would we take you to Houston's criminal hideaway...?"

"Well what kind of entrance is this!" Jack exploded, gesturing at the small door that was waiting darkly for them at the end of the alleyway.

Spot didn't miss a beat. He reached into his robe and pulled from beneath the delicate folds a key that had been hanging around his neck by a ribbon, and he turned to Jack and said, "Honey, this is the back door."

"Oh," said Jack.

David smiled.

Spot inserted the key into the keyhole, turned it, and pulled the door open, and Jack had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep himself from giving a distinctly un-manly gasp when he saw what was inside. "Golly!" he couldn't resist saying.

The Kowboi Klub was like a dream, everything smooth and dark and mysterious and familiar. From the back door they could see the foyer at the front entrance, where an old man was polishing a gold leaf pattern of what appeared to be lassoes and cowboy hats. People were rushing to and fro across a rich mahogany dance floor, placing candles on tables draped in colorful, patterned cloth. Across one wall was a massive mural Jack estimated may have been painted by Salvador Dali or possibly Bono, featuring cowboys and Indians, and the ceiling was high and broad, ropes hanging in intricate patterns. There was a bar where several young bartenders had congregated and appeared to be playing tic-tac-toe, and at the front was an enormous, gleaming stage, above which shone the words in soft neon lights, _Mush Meyers: The Silver Spur._

"Man, this place looks like shit," said Spot, taking off his robe and draping it unceremoniously over a nearby chair. He strode agitatedly across the dance floor and demanded, "Where in the hell is Medda?"

"Sean, darlink, you arrived!" cried a voice with a very thick, very fake Swedish accent from behind them. They turned to see a woman with curly red hair and rolled up sleeves rushing towards them, balancing several rolls of fabric in her arms. She threw her arms around Spot and kissed his forehead, and then proceeded to do the same to David. "I haf been vorried sick, your new costumes are only half feenished and ve are out of sequvins!"

"Oh don't worry, Med, we brought extra," said David, reaching into his pocket and producing a large plastic bag full of glittering sequins.

"You haf saved my life!" Medda cried, kissing him again, and then she spotted Jack, who was still staring about the Kowboi Klub in a state of shock. "Ah, and I see you haf brought a friend! Ees he a new dancer or a boyfriend?"

David turned bright red. "Um, neither really, just a friend. Jack, this is Medda, our costume designer and practically our mother. Medda, meet Jack Kelly."

"Vell," said Medda, nodding her approval as she shook Jack's hand. "I like zis boy, such style! And he has an enormous... _gift_."

Jack smiled proudly. "Yep, that's what everyone told me in Toad Suck!" he said.

"I see," said Medda.

"Jack just arrived in Houston yesterday," Spot explained. "He wants to be a real cowboy."

Jack beamed, and almost started to bounce up and down in his black cowboys boots, before sternly reminding himself that cowboy's didn't bounce. It wasn't dignified.

Arching her eyebrow, Medda looked him up and down, appearing to deliberate for just a moment, and looking about as imposing as someone clad in peach silk hotpants possibly could. Whatever she was thinking about, she reached a decision, smiled, and reached out to take Jack by the hand.

"You come with me then, little cowboy," she said slyly. "I think I have just the right place for you."

-

An hour later, Jack was sitting in front of a vanity mirror in the chorus boys' dressing room, trying to do his makeup the way Medda had shown him. He had already done his eyeshadow, blush, lipstick, and concealer, and now he was trying to apply mascara to the false lashes Medda had glued on for him without stabbing himself in the eye. In the last few minutes, he had developed a newfound respect for the girls back home in Toad Suck, and everything they had to put themselves through. Darlene had slaved for hours every day in front of the mirror, buffing, polishing, waxing, dyeing, plucking, exfoliating, cleansing, toning, tanning, whitening, volumizing, accentuating, concealing, and beautifying. Jack looked at his face with newly critical eyes, and suddenly saw, for the first time in his life, how badly he had been taking care of himself up until today. Sometimes it was hard to be a woman.

Of course, he was still a cowboy, and as much a real man as had ever roamed the range. But real cowboys, he had learned, had to take care of themselves too. When Medda pulled out a waxing kit to, as she said, better accentuate his gift, Jack had yelped and told her she didn't have to bother, really—girly stuff like that wasn't the kind of thing that cowboys went for.

Medda frowned at him. "You think cowboys do not have to vorry about looking good?"

"Well—uh—…yes, actually. I mean…they look rugged. That's different."

"Do you know who John Wayne is, Jack?"

"Of course!" Jack said, outraged. What kind of a real cowboy didn't know who John Wayne was?

"Vell," said Medda slowly, "at the ze height of his career, John Wayne spent fifteen thousand dollars effery year, chust on moisturizers _alone_."

"You're jokin'."

"Fifteen thousand dollars."

For just a moment, Jack was torn: his manly side told him not to listen, that he didn't need moisturizer—he was Jack Kelly! He had nice hair!

…but then there was another part of him. The part that had watched John Wayne movies every Sunday afternoon growing up in Toad Suck, the one that had always dreamed of being a cowboy, home on the range. The part Dolly had spoken to. The part that told him a little moisturizer wasn't going to keep him from his dream.

For a second, he deliberated. And then, that second part of him won out.

"Wax me, Medda," he said grimly.

Medda blushed with joy. "Thank you, Jack. You haf made my afternoon. It is not often zat I get to vork vith someone who has such an enormous…gift."

"That's what they tell me," Jack had said.

And now, with just five minutes left to go before he had to be on stage, Jack was in front of the mirror, frantically trying to lengthen and volumize his lashes before the show started. He was going to be a cowboy backup dancer tonight, which was to star Mush Meyers, the Kowboi Klub's biggest draw. Whoever this guy was, Jack thought as he stabbed himself in the eye yet again with his mascara wand, he must be one hell of a performer. All day, he was the only thing the people at the club talked about.

"Skittery, what are you doing eating an Oh Henry bar? Mush throws a tantrum and refuses to perform whenever he sees one! Don't you know they remind him of his affair with Henry Winkler?"

"Oh, David, darlink, could you pass me that bag of sequins? I need to feenish decorating Mush's bustier for ze can-can tonight."

"Snitch, how are you doing with finding brandy glass of brown M&M's? Mush has to go on in a half an hour, and you know he won't perform if he doesn't have it!"

Mush, Mush, Mush. That was all anyone talked about here. It was enough to give him a headache.

And then, with two minutes to go before the curtain went up, and just as Jack had started to apply his mascara with a steady hand, the door to the dressing room slammed open, and an imposing voice shouted: "SOMEONE GET ME A THERAFLU AND RUM OR YOU CAN FORGET ABOUT ME PERFORMING TONIGHT! Ben and I broke up again."

Jack, who could only see things that were five inches away from him since he had jammed his mascara wand in his eye again as soon as the door slammed, turned to the boy next to him, who was carefully setting a purple snakeskin cowboy hat on his silky black hair.

"Who's Ben?" Jack whispered.

"Affleck," the boy sighed, a slight accent tingeing his lilting voice. "They've been together on and off since _Gigli._" He paused. "You new here?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm Jack."

The boy reached out to shake his hand. "I thought so—all of us have heard way too much about Mush and Ben already. I'm Bumlets. You, uh, want a hand with your mascara?"

"That would be nice," said Jack.

Bumlets tilted Jack's hat back and with expert fingers fixed up his rather shabby job with the mascara wand. "Gee, thanks," said Jack, blinking several times, and his sight cleared so that the other boy's handsome face came into view. With his delicate silken vest and perfectly styled hair, Bumlets looked like an angel.

"Hey, don't thank me," said Bumlets, turning Jack so that he was facing the mirror. "If you ask me, you weren't too bad off to begin with."

Jack stared at his reflection, stunned. Something magical had happened. He was no longer Jack Kelly, the reject from the Toad Suck Grizzly Eels, wearing the same slacks and turtleneck every day-- suddenly he was graceful, majestic, almost godlike. Whatever this stuff was they had applied to his face, it had worked wonders. He suddenly felt overcome with emotion, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Now none of that," said Bumlets, smiling and patting Jack's shoulder bracingly. "You'll smear your mascara and then we'll be right back where we started."

Jack nodded and looked into the mirror again. He suddenly found himself wondering what Darlene really looked like.

"Bumlets, babe, I'll never understand how you always manage to get dressed so much faster than the rest of us," said an Asian boy with a beautiful, dark face as he came up behind them. He smiled at Bumlets and then kissed him quietly, the pair of them radiating the delicious awkwardness of a recently formed relationship.

"I've been here a while," said Bumlets finally.

"Yeah, I know."

Bumlets grabbed the other boy's hand and then turned to Jack, how was meditating on which side of his cowboy hat was the front and which was the back. "Jack, meet my boyfriend Swifty. Swifty, this is Jack Kelly. He's new."

Swifty smiled and shook Jack's hand, and Jack nodded and then turned distractedly back to his hat. So hard to decide, it looked so good both ways... He wondered if he should ditch the hat altogether and just let his hair flow free. Yeah, that could be the best bet...

"So, ah, Mush and Ben broke up again, did you hear?" said Bumlets to Swifty as he helped adjust his belt.

"Did anyone not hear? Jesus, I'm sure all of Houston knows by now," Swifty said dryly.

"Yeah, well Blink should be happy."

"Who's Blink?" Jack asked, modeling for himself in the mirror. Hat backwards, hat forwards, no hat-- comb, _comb_, where the hell was the goddamn comb!

Bumlets glanced at Swifty and sighed softly. "It's rather tragic really," he said, standing up. "Kid Blink's a bartender here, and he's been absolutely in love with Mush ever since they first met. Mush insists that it'll never work, that they just aren't right for each other, but, well..." He shot his boyfriend another significant look. "Everyone knows Blink is the only one Mush loves."

Jack was touched. "So now they can finally be together!"

"It's not that easy," Swifty said sadly. "Even with everyone rooting for them, Mush is a really difficult person to work with. He's been running through guys at a mile a minute-- Ben, Ewan, Keanu, Brad... I mean they're all really nice guys, but who knows if Mush will ever be able to settle down and be with the one man he truly loves?"

"Oh my God," aid Jack, putting down his cowboy hat. "That is so--"

"Ah, speak of the devil!" said Swifty genially, grabbing a skinny blond boy with a patch over one eye as he dashed by. "Blink, this here's Jack Kelly."

Jack wondered how someone with one eye could be named Blink.

"Oh-- um, hi," said Blink, grinning and grabbing Jack's hand. "Nice to meet you, man. Listen, I gotta run; the new cowboy ballet is only half choreographed, and now Spot, Dave, and Skittery are all freakin' out 'cause their ballet slippers don't match their leotards." He shook his head, but he was still smiling slightly. "Theater people-- you can't live with 'em."

"Excuse me!" said Swifty.

Blink grinned and ruffled Bumlets's hair, which fell instantaneously back into place. "Hey you know I love you guys-- and theater people in general..." He glanced almost imperceptibly at the closed door of Mush's dressing room, and his expression changed slightly.

"BLINK! SLIPPERS!" yelled a half-dressed, dark-haired boy from across the dressing room.

Blink blinked. Or rather winked, Jack corrected himself. He wondered if "wink" was a manly enough word for a real cowboy to use. "Comin', Skittery!" he called, and he said by way of explanation "Quest for the matching slippers" to Swifty, Bumlets, and Jack, and then he was gone.

"I'M TELLING YOU, I CAN'T PERFORM IN THIS STATE! IT'S JUST NOT HAPPENING!" came the muffled shriek from Mush's dressing room.

Medda dashed by carrying an armload of lavender fabric and snakeskin and ribbons, followed by a fat man who was shouting anxiously about how there was no one here who could possibly do the interpretive cowboy dance, and the club was doomed to failure if they didn't find someone to perform it soon.

"Is it always this crazy in here?" Jack asked, putting on his hat.

Bumlets smiled. "Always," he said.

"Thirty seconds to curtain," Swifty murmured, glancing at his watch. "Mush is cutting it awfully close this time."

Standing by the door to the prima donna in question's dressing room, Medda was doing her best to coax him out. "Mush, Darlink!" she was saying. "Hundreds of people are vaiting out there, and for vat? For _you_, my leetle aquatic flea! Efferyone loves you here, Mush! Ve are all so worried about you!"

"I DON'T CARE!" came a strangled wail from inside the dressing room. "NOTHING IN THIS WHOLE UGLY WORLD MATTERS TO ME IF I DON'T HAVE MY BEN!"

A boy with a hot-pink bandanna tied Bruce Springsteen-style around his pale blond hair sidled up to the door. "Mush," he called sternly, "is this about Jennifer Garner again?"

"NO, DUTCHY, IT IS NOT ABOUT JENNIFER GARNER! ...although she's an ugly bitch who can't act for shit and probably doesn't know Fosse from that ugly catsuit she wore in _Elektra_, but THAT IS BESIDE THE POINT."

"He's not gonna be out of here for the rest of the night," Dutchy said to the fat man, who was pacing nervously outside the door. "Trust me. For the next three hours he's gonna do nothing but cry, eat Entenmann's crumb cake, and watch _Felicity."_

Well, we have to do something!" the fat man said, running a hand through his thinning hair. "The audience is getting restless, our headliner refuses to come out..." suddenly, desperately, he turned to the dressing room at large, and shouted: "Can anyone here fill in for Mush and do the Interpretive Cowboy Dance? Please, _anybody_. Anybody at all."

For just an instant, Jack froze. This was his chance--he was looking his dream of seventeen years in the face, and for just a second, he thought of backing down.

But then, a voice, spoke to him: familiar, sweet, with a lilting Tennessee accent that was all too familiar to him. "Go get 'em, Cowboy," it said.

"Thanks, Dolly," Jack whispered, and then, before he lost his chance forever, he stood up and strode over to the fat man. "Mister," he said, extending a well-manicured hand, "my name is Jack Kelly, and I think I might be just the man you're lookin' for."

Seitz looked at him dubiously. "Can you dance? he asked.

"_Can _I?" Jack snorted, feigning outrage, but inwardly thinking: well, no, not really. But that didn't matter. He was a cowboy, and who cared about dancing when you had cowboy blood running through your veins and cowboy mascara on your sultry eyelashes?

"Well," said Seitz, "I don't know how good you are, or what you're good at, Jack Kelly, but you're a good-looking boy and you have nice hair. I'm gonna take a chance with you--make sure I don't regret it."

From inside Mush's dressing room came a cry of: "No, Felicity! Ben may be handsome, but NOEL IS THE ONE WHO REALLY CARES ABOUT YOU! Don't get your heart broken again!"

"Now get out there and show us what your worth," Seitz said with an almost fatherly smile.

As Jack scurried out to the stage, Seitz looked over at Medda, an expression of relief on his face. "I can't put my finger on it," he said, "but that boy seems to have something the others don't. A certain...a certain..."

"Gift?" Medda suggested.

"Yeah, that's it," Seitz said. "Exactly. A gift."

Jack passed David on his way to the stage, and the curly-haired boy stopped him and asked where he was going. "You're in Bumlets's group, aren't you? The background cowboy dancers don't come on for another twenty minutes," he said as he struggled with his fishnet stockings.

"I know," said Jack, "I'm filling in for Mush."

The entire dressing room seemed to go oddly quiet. David stared at Jack, eyes wide. "You're-- you're _what?"_ he managed to splutter.

"I'm filling in for Mush," said Jack in a slightly louder voice, concerned that his friend had not heard him the first time.

"He heard you, Jack," said Spot, sounding slightly irritated. He rested his foot against the edge of the countertop in order to tighten the ribbons on his ballet slipper. "Now tell me-- who in hell gave you the notion that you could fill in for Mush Meyers?"

"Seitz said it was okay!" said Jack indignantly. "I _am_ gifted, Dr. Spot."

Spot glanced at David, who shrugged. "All right," he said finally. "Go get 'em, tiger. I just hope Seitz knows what he's doin'..."

-

"So, didjya hear?" said Kid Blink, bending down to find the glasses for two large margaritas. "They've got a new kid filling in for Mush tonight, 'cause he's too heartbroken to perform."

Snitch, a tall brunet cocktail waitress leaning against the bar, stared at Blink in amazement. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was," Blink laughed. "He just came into Houston yesterday, his name's Jack Kelly or somethin'... I hope he's good."

"Even if he is, there's no way he'll be able to adequately fill in for Mush Meyers," said Snitch darkly. He leaned forward conspiratorially, adjusting his glittering sleeve. "I mean, Mush is our headliner; you can't just spontaneously replace him and expect the audience to be happy! Everyone's here to see him!"

"I know, I know, but hey, what can we do?"

Snitch sighed. "I guess you're right. Maybe I'm just being paranoid-- I mean, if the Kowboi Klub goes down, I go down with it. I don't have anywhere else to go! This is my home."

Blink smiled and patted his friend's arm. "Don't worry, Snitch. The Kowboi Klub isn't going down just because of a little mishap with our La Carlotta; he'll come around once he and Ben get back together, and everything will be back to normal."

"Maybe it's not Ben he needs," said Snitch.

Blink didn't say anything.

"Oh hey, the ballet's ending," Snitch said after a moment, glancing back up at the stage. He seated himself on a stool and crossed one long leg over the other. "This should be interesting."

"Mmm," Blink agreed. He put down the margarita he had been making and rested his chin on his fist to watch.

The curtain closed and there was loud applause, and a tall man wearing a wide-brimmed cowboy hat sat down next to Snitch and ordered a tankard of ale from Blink. There was a moment of anxious silence in anticipation of what everyone knew was to be the best act of the night, and then the neon lights above the stage flashed on brilliantly: _Mush Meyers, the Silver Spur._

The music started dramatically, and the announcer's voice boomed throughout the club, "Ladies and gentlemen, the Kowboi Klub is proud to present that sizzling seductress, that entrancing entertainer, Houston's pride and joy..." There was a brief, theatrical pause. "Mush Meyers, the Silver Sp--"

The announcer's voice broke off abruptly, and muffled whispering could be heard from behind the curtain. The audience craned their necks to try to see what was going on. "Excuse me," said the announcer presently. "Jack Kelly, the Other Silver Spur!" The curtains flew back, revealing Jack in all his leather-and-snakeskin-and-nice-hair glory, standing awkwardly in the middle of the stage.

There was silence.

"Oh my gosh, I can't watch," Snitch whispered, hiding his face in his hands.

Blink put down the drink he was making and began to clap loudly, and after a moment the rest of the audience joined in somewhat hesitantly. Jack took a rather awkward bow.

The music started, the fast and rhythmic song Mush usually used to start his act off with a bang. The beat was steady and the audience was excited, and Jack did nothing but stand in the middle of the stage, absolutely petrified.

"Don't just stand there, my leetle cowboy!" Medda hissed from the left wing. "Do somesing!"

"Just kill me just kill me just kill me," Snitch murmured, banging his head repeatedly against Blink's shoulder. Blink patted him reassuringly.

Jack continued to stand in the middle of the stage, his mind utterly blank, unable to think of a single dance move to perform. And then he thought of Dolly, and how hard he had worked to be where he was now. He wasn't going to ruin this for himself! He had nice hair!

And he began to dance.

He took a step, spun around, hopped, did a bit of a pirouette, and yelled, "YAH!" for good measure. He jumped, skipped, flipped, spun on his knees, yelled "YAH!" again, and before he knew it the dance was flowing and everything felt natural and he knew he could do this, he was the star and a real cowboy on a real stage and he could do this!

The audience watched in dead silence for the entire dance, save the point where a particularly loud "YAH!" from Jack startled Blink so much that he dropped a glass that shattered loudly on the floor. Jack finished his dance off with a spin, a jump, and what looked oddly like The Robot, and then he leapt into the air and landed in a cowboy stance just as the music ended.

For about ten seconds, the Kowboi Klub was so quiet that Snitch's rather ragged, terrified breathing could be heard throughout the entire club.

And then the audience burst into applause, throwing everything from red roses to boxer shorts at Jack, and Medda signaled hurriedly for him to exit the stage before he was smothered to death. He did as she told, looking frightened but exhilarated, and she hugged him and kissed him and told him vat a vonderful job he did and how she knew he had a gift like no ozzer.

"Well," said Blink, smiling and shaking his head in wonder. "I'll be damned."

Snitch lifted up his tray of drinks again and said, "I wonder how Mush is going to handle this, huh? This could lead to a nervous breakdown on his part."

"Yeah, the results could be catastrophic-- I predict an alarming incretion of consumption of Entenmanns's crumb cake and boxes of Kleenex. He may even upgrade from Felicity to Shakespeare In Love."

"But that's why you love him," said Snitch.

Blink smiled slightly. "Yeah," he said, "I guess so."

And it was, of course, at this very moment, that Mush chose to emerge from his dressing room and stroll over to the bar.

One thing could be said for the boy: even with all his histrionics, failed romances, and temper tantrums, he understood dramatic timing. Not fifteen seconds after Jack had finished his Interpretive Cowboy Dance to thunderous applause, the barroom was utterly silent. Mush didn't seem to notice. Clad in sea-green velvet elbow gloves, a little ermine jacker, and a floor-length silver lamé evening gown, he slid onto a barstool and ordered a martini, very dry.

Blink, looking absolutely petrified, mixed the drink in a perfectly chilled shaker, and served it to the boy who, until fifteen seconds ago, had been the Kowboi Klub's sparkling diamond.

Mush took a sip of his drink. "Well, boys," he said to the room at large, "I've decided that the show must go on. Inside my heart is breaking, my makeup may be flaking, but my smile, still, stays on. If I don't perform tonight, I'm only letting Ben win. So you can all rest easy. I'm going out on that stage and doing my Interpretive Cowboy Dance better than I've ever done it before."

The silence increased roughly 738 percent. Blink choked on an olive, and up onstage, the eight Cowboy Dancers froze in the middle of their ballet, David's joints frozen as he held Spot in a full lift, Swifty stuck holding Bumlets' rather shapely leg for all eternity. Someday, someone would have to say something, and whatever was said, Mush's wrath would be titanic. But before a single word could be uttered, what was either their doom or their saving grace emerged from the audience, in the form of the star of _Armageddon_.

Ben Affleck, a bouquet of six dozen amaryllis held in his well-muscled arms, was running towards the barroom, an expression of absolute adoration in his eyes. He arrived, breathless, beside the bar. His face hidden by a swath of flowers, it was difficult to tell who he was talking to.

"You," he said tearfully, "are the most incredible, intelligent, talented, _gifted _person I have ever met, and if you only give me the chance, I will love you from the bottom of my heart."

"Oh, Ben!" said Mush, reaching out to take the bouquet, "all is forgiven! You know—"

Ben looked at Mush distractedly. "Oh, hi. Listen, could you back off a second? I'm trying to talk to somebody here."

"I…what?"

Ben turned to face Jack Kelly, who had just emerged from his dressing room and was back in the leather pants that put his gift fully on display. "Jack," said Ben, "I want you to have these flowers as a token of my appreciation and love for you."

"Gee," said Jack, taking the bouquet in his arms. "That's really nice of you. What's your name?"

"Ben Affleck."

"Ben Affleck! Now isn't that the funniest thing? You know, one of the other guys who works here just broke up with a guy named Ben Affleck."

Snitch leaned over and tapped Jack on the shoulder. "Mr. Kelly—"

"Quiet, waitress, I'm conversing with an admirer," Jack said in his fanciest tone. He was particularly proud of himself for remembering to say "conversing"—he had read it just the night before in the "Improve Your Word Power!" section of David's _Reader's Digest_.

"Could you bring this talented young man a drink?" Ben Affleck said distractedly, still unable to tear his eyes away from Jack's handsome face. "Jack, what will you have?"

"Oh, I'll have a—"

"A _milkshake_," Mush said spitefully from his corner of the bar. Ben Affleck shot him a glare that could have peeled the green paint off Fenway Park.

"I'll have a martini, please, very dry," Jack said, batting his eyelashes at Ben.

"Put that in a thermos, please, Blink?"

"A thermos, Mr. Affleck?" Blink asked. For one thing, not having Jack and Ben around would certainly decrease the chances of Mush doing any serious damage to the club—but he was also a dedicated bartender, and he had his pride. Bartenders did not put things in _thermoses_.

Suddenly, a shattering sound could be heard: Mush's grip on his martini had tightened so much that the glass had shattered.

"A thermos. Right," said Blink.

"Jack, let's go someplace quieter, where we can talk. I want to learn all about you. Is there any special place you'd like me to take you to?" Ben asked.

"Well…" Jack considered. "Say, do you happen to know where we might find a ranch? You know, with ponies, and stables, and wide-open fields beneath an azure sky?"

"Know where to find one—I own one!" said Ben. "It's called…uh…" and here there was a pregnant pause, because everyone in the club knew that the ranch was called "Rancho Del Musho" and had been a gift from him to Mush on their two month anniversary, complete with guard dogs who were trained to kill Jennifer Lopez on sight.

"…Well, actually, it doesn't have a name," Ben finished lamely. "Why don't you name it, Jack?"

"Gee, okay then. You sure are nice, Mr. Affleck."

"You flatter me, Jack."

And with that, the two strolled out of the Kowboi Klub, arm in arm.

Blink looked down at the milkshake he was still holding in his hand, trying to delay the moment when he knew he would inevitably have to look into Mush's face. "Um..." he said. "Snitch, do you want this thermos?"

The neon lights announcing _Mush Meyers: the Silver Spur_ flickered out pathetically.

**-**

**Shout-Outs!**

**singin'-newsies-goil**

SATURDAY: ...Did she just call me "son"?

DALTON: It appears so.

DAKKI: But she also complimented our fic extensively, and threatened to kill Dutchy.

SATURDAY: I love her...

DAKKI: So do I. And if Dalton were straight, so would he.

DALTON: DON'T YOU _DARE_ MOCK ME TODAY, I'M PMS-ING MAJORLY.

KNOX: Aww... He's so cute.

**Sprints 100**

DALTON: It is true that their abuse of the English language is legendary.

DAKKI: It's a hobby of ours.

SATURDAY: I guess reading our run-on sentences is rather like watching a little kid fry an ant with a magnifying glass, huh?

DAKKI: It's a wonder that we have any reviewers at all. We should throw them a party.

**ellaeternity**

DAKKI: You know what's even sadder than mentally restyling a movie character's hair?

SATURDAY: Mentally watching a movie character restyle his own hair.

DAKKI: And telling your reviewers that you do so.

DALTON: ((puts down the comb in aggrivation)) IF YOU TWO DON'T STOP SCRUTINIZING MY BEAUTIFYING PROCESS, I AM GOING TO--

SATURDAY: ((quietly closes the bathroom door))

**Erin Go Bragh**

JACK: YOU NORMALLY DON'T LIKE ME!

DALTON: Of course she doesn't! How could anyone pay attention to any other man when _I_ am in the room?

DAKKI: They both think they're Wonderman.

SATURDAY: But we all know that David is the only sexually appealing character in the entire fandom.

JACK: ((blushes))


End file.
